Hustle, Loyalty, Respect
by Lord Zeuss
Summary: KOTOR-Wrestling crossover fic. Carth is stranded on Taris with a Republic soldier who turns out to be none other than John Cena. His plan to earn credits involves returning to Taris Wrestling Entertainment.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:** While I penned most of this, it was very much a collaborative effort between myself, my sister, and some of my other siblings.

* * *

"Hey. My name's John."

He was, without a doubt, the oddest Republic soldier Carth had ever met. The Sith had overrun the _Endar Spire_, killing everyone who hadn't fled to the escape pods, and generally wreaking havoc. Carth himself had barely gotten away in one piece; it had taken all he had to break through to the pod bay. And here was this guy, gazing through from the inner escape pod with a look of unflappable cheer. He wore a camouflage cap with a slogan on the front, a silly-looking cartoon T-shirt, and baggy denim shorts—in short, he looked nothing like the last surviving crew member, though he had even less in common with the Sith. All in all, he was resoundingly incongruous. And he thought it was a good time for introductions?

At wit's end, he responded, "I'm Carth. I'm a soldier with the Republic just like you." He felt compelled to add, just so they were clear, "This is the last escape pod."

"Okay, fine. We'll share then."

No sooner said than done, and their pod was whistling away from the _Endar Spire. _ They entered the atmosphere of Taris with about as much turbulence as you'd expect from the inside of a martini shaker; the pod was jostling violently, sending its passengers rebounding off the walls. Before blacking out, Carth's last conscious thought was a profound wish for Tarisian ale.

He awoke who-knows-how-long later with a headache of truly impressive proportions. Looking around at his surroundings – to wit, an unfamiliar but distinctly seedy room - it was easy to believe it had all been a drunken hallucination. Especially considering that he felt badly hungover, and the apartment was just the sort of place he'd crash after a drinking binge.

Seriously, the place was a freaking dump that barely qualified as a dwelling. The walls looked to have been perma-stained so many times that the caretakers, if any, of the place had long ago given up trying to beautify them. The paint was chipped and flaky in those places where it wasn't horribly discolored, displaying the bare crete walls. The few sparse pieces of furniture, like the sad excuse for a bed he was lying on, were in such bad shape they looked like they might collapse at any moment. And the lighting was deplorable – a cave would be better than this place, and better decorated, too.

With the tips of his fingers, he examined the bandage on his head. It wasn't as bad as he'd feared - just a hard knock that had rapidly developed into an egg-shaped raised bruise. Possibly a nestful of eggs.

When the door swung open without warning, Carth discovered he wasn't too woozy to leap into action, instantly covering the intruder with his blaster. But the new guy looked more amused than bemused, which was hardly the reaction Carth was going for. The other raised his hand to tip his cap. "Hey, go easy on the blaster. Don't you remember me?"

The cartoony shirt was unmistakable. "Sorry. Didn't recognize you for a second." Carth holstered his blaster. "What's your name again?"

"John," said the familiar stranger, with a grin that featured more dimples than a golf ball. "My name's John."

"I think I should be able to remember that."

"Well, if you didn't, I wouldn't blame you," John proclaimed, slinging himself down on a dirty, backless divan that miraculously didn't disintegrate under his weight. A rather considerable weight, too; the guy was stocked with enough muscles for three men. "You took a pretty hard bash to the head. You've been out for almost a day. I've done some scouting around in the meantime and it looks like some of your other escape pods might have crashed in the area."

"We have to find Bastila!"

John threw up his hands placatingly. "Whoa now, wait a second, just slow down. Who's Bastila?"

"Only the most important person on the _Endar Spire_. She's a Jedi, and the Sith are going to be hunting her."

"Okay, sounds important. But there's a problem with the whole let's-go-on-a-planet-wide-search thing."

Carth was running out of patience. "What problem?"

"Well…" John scratched the side of his jaw. "It just so happens that I spent the last of my money on a bribe to let us use this apartment. And, I kinda had to use yours as well."

"What?" His voice was calm, but very tight.

John shrugged his huge shoulders. "Basically, we've got no money."

Carth was about to begin cursing a blue streak when John slapped him on the shoulder. "But don't worry! I've got a plan!"

"A plan?" Carth said between his teeth. "Your last plan has us dead broke in this bantha-hole! We can't look for Bastila, we can't go around attracting attention--we're going to have to lie low so the Sith don't realize we're here!"

"The Sith won't know anything's wrong, I promise."

* * *

"You said the problem was we don't have any money. I don't see how popping into a cantina will solve anything."

John had led Carth to a cantina in an Upper City district, without paying much attention to his protests. "I already told you, I have an idea," John said over his shoulder. Sighing in exasperation, Carth followed. He only hoped John's grand credit-acquisition plan didn't involve pazaak. He sucked at pazaak.

It was a typical cantina: crowds of drunks, sleazy music performed by an inexpert band, and half-dressed dancers lit by lurid neon torchieres. To Carth's relief, John brushed past the pazaak tables as they pushed through the crowd. They avoided the bar and the stage as well, further increasing his cluelessness. He had absolutely no idea what John was doing.

He noticed John kept his down, so the visor of his cap obscured his face as much as possible, and he slouch-walked so as to fit in with the rest of the patrons. Carth realized he must look really conspicuous in his bright orange jacket and military posture; he tried to relax his back and shuffle a bit, but with only limited success.

They eventually got through the main areas of the cantina and entered a rear office. The room was dominated by an enormous, jolly-looking Hutt plopped at one end who was watching several different holoscreens in front of him.

John barked a Huttese greeting, and the Hutt looked up at his two visitors.

"_I am Ajuur. What do you want?_"

Carth shifted on his feet nervously and resisted the urge to finger his blaster for comfort.

John got closer and tipped his cap back, showing the Ajuur his tough-guy face. A look of recognition and delight crossed Ajuur's face. "_John? John Cena? Is that really you?_"

"Yep, Ajuur, it's me. I'm finally back."

"_Who's your companion? Your new tag-team partner?_"

"No, Ajuur, he's just along for the ride."

"_Cena, we have to get you into tonight's show. The return of John Cena will send our ratings through the roof, and that means more money for me. And for you as well._"

"That's what I was hoping. Who's on the plate for tonight?"

"_Well, let's see. Canderous is fighting John Bradshaw Layfield._"

"JBL?" John made a sour face. "I hope the Mandalorian gets to squash him into the ring."

Ajuur laughed. "_Heels have to win every once in a while, otherwise things get boring, you know. By the way, Canderous gave himself a new ring name. It's Triple H._"

"Triple H, you say? It doesn't stand for Hedonistic and Helpful Hector, by any chance?"

"_Not that I know of, Cena. Oh, yes, and tonight the championship torch passes to Randy Orton the Star-Killer._"

Suddenly, a evil grin spread over John's face. "Ajuur, I think I have the perfect idea for my reappearance tonight." He and Ajuur began speaking in rapid Huttese, much to Carth's suspicion. When they were finally done, John turned back to him with the grin still plastered on his face.

"What did you and Ajuur agree on?" Carth asked.

John refused to stop grinning. "Well, for one thing, you're going to be a commentator tonight. Your new name is Michael Cole, and all you have to do is sit behind a table with two other great guys and pretend to commentate. I'll do all the hard work. Just follow my lead."

Highly suspicious, Carth let John lead him through some other doors in the back of the office.

Without warning, the passage opened into what appeared to be the backstage area of a fair-sized stadium. He and John were instantly surrounded by a bevy of incredibly sexy women wearing more less than had the dancers in the cantina proper. Blonds, brunettes, and redheads alike - some wearing precious little more than scant bikinis and others wearing tight, flashy pants with swishy, sparkly frills - latched themselves onto him faster than he could extricate himself from their grasp. Carth saw John repel his own following with a cool-guy glare, but when the women saw John's disinterest, they only flocked to Carth, leaning against him as they wrapped arms around his neck and pawed at his jacket. Feminine coos of admiring adoration filled the air, punctuated with trills of pique as little bickers broke out among those who found themselves competing for the most body contact with Carth.

John looked on the verge of laughter. "Sorry, Carth. I should probably have warned you about wearing that jacket in here." He guffawed loudly. "Or maybe about coming in here period."

"I am going to kill you for this, John."

With another chuckle, John pulled the lithe women away from his beleaguered companion and instructed them to organize a catfight to see who would get to date the cute guy in the orange jacket. It took them all of five seconds to begin grappling with one another as they abandoned Carth to fight amongst themselves.

"What the Force _is_ this place?" Carth demanded as he and John moved on. At a loss for words, he pointed back to the unrestrained feminine anarchy behind them. "And who... I mean, what... why...?"

"This is backstage at the Taris Wrestling Entertainment's flagship wrestling show, Raw. You just met all of Raw's divas. But I'd stay away from them, especially Kelly Kelly; she's the blonde who was giving you eyefuls--"

"WHICH one who was giving me eyefuls? I could have sworn they were about to--"

"The tiniest one. Least costume, sparkly pink--that's Kelly Kelly. There's something seriously wrong with anyone who's purposely redundant."

"I hear you," Carth agreed. "But whatever the rest of your plan is, it had better not involve any more divas."

"I told you I'd take care of the hard part."

"Well, no more surprises. I hate surprises."

"I think you just have no sense of humor, Carth."

"Eight or nine half-naked women with their arms around my neck is not my idea of 'humor'. I mean, don't get me wrong, I like women, but...too much is too much."

"Speak for yourself. But you won't have to be at the receiving end of much more of that. You'll just sit at your table with a set of headphones and talk. From what I can tell, you're excellent at that."

"Alright. As long as--"

Carth and John were interrupted by a monstrous, shirtless, eerily hairless guy wearing tight vinyl pants who blocked their way. His pudgy face was screwed into a perpetual scowl as of disgust and he carried a small burlap sack in one hand. He simply stood there, like a gigantic rancid lump of ice-cold butter, and glared at the both of them until John wisely steered him and Carth around the silent hulk. As they passed down the corridor, they heard the scowling man grab someone and snarl, "Where. Is. _PUNK?!_" at the poor unfortunate.

John paid it no mind and restrained Carth from pulling his blaster yet again. "Just keep walking."

There was a strangled yelp and cries of "Did you try the Pepsi machine?" followed by more pathetic sounds. The victim was apparently incapable of fighting back.

"Keep walking? Someone's being attacked back there!"

"I know, it's no big deal."

"What?"

"This is professional wrestling. The guys are supposed to beat each other up." Carth was dubious, but Cena insisted, "I'm serious! Stuff like that is normal and expected! Besides, it was only Santino. If his larynx is damaged, that's in everybody's best interests."

Carth shook his head in disbelief. "What in the good name of the Jedi have you gotten me into?"

* * *

Just as John had promised, Carth eventually found himself equipped with a headset and seated at the announcers' table, facing a square wrestling ring in what was indeed a full-sized stadium. The sellout crowd roared as the show's theme - Wanna Be Loved by a band considerably more competent than the cantina's - blared deafeningly loud over the loudspeakers. His two table-mates had been introduced as Jerry 'The King' Lawler and Jim Ross. Oddly enough, Jim Ross's mouth never seemed to move sufficiently, yet he spoke perfectly well. Carth began to secretly think of him as 'the guy whose mouth never moves'. Thankfully, Jim and Jerry did most of the talking, and 'Michael Cole' was able to mostly just sit back and try to absorb things, offering only token opinions every once in a while when prompted by the other two.

Barely had Raw's theme music finished playing when a new song dominated the loudspeakers and the huge screens behind one end of the ring lit up with images of boiling fire. Slowly, the massive, still-scowling man - who'd menaced him and John in the backstage - lumbered down the ramp towards the ring. Jim and Jerry enthusiastically identified the hulking bad attitude on legs as Kane.

But instead of entering the ring like Carth hoped he would, Kane trod directly over to the commentators' table and started pounding on it with his hands and yelling, "Is he alive, or dead!" He was working himself into a bubbling frenzy, finally reaching over the table and grabbing 'Michael Cole' by the collar and heaving him bodily to the floor. Kane then hurled Carth into the ring and roared, "Is he _alive_, or _dead_!" More pummeling followed.

Carth's attempts to fight back were squelched by Kane's sheer brute strength, and he was knocked to the bouncy floor of the ring over and over again. Strangely, it didn't hurt that much, but there were thousands of other ways he'd rather be spending an evening. Every time Kane's massive paws closed on him, he was afraid that this would be the overture to a broken bone or two. Or ten.

Suddenly, the loudspeakers blared to life again, this time playing a super heavy, machinegun-paced heavy metal track complete with a screaming vocalist. A modestly muscled guy with long, slick black hair paraded down the ramp to the adoration of the whole crowd as they chanted "CM Punk!" He was wearing a T-shirt with a ribcage on it, a gigantic belt, and very short, stretchy pants, but as far as the crowd was concerned, he could've been naked and they would love him just as much. Unless they were fan girls, in which case, well, they'd love him even more.

The newcomer set upon Kane with a rain of blows and bodyslams, diverting the lumbering lummox's attention away from 'Michael Cole' for the time being. A small crowd of referees in black-and-white striped shirts quickly arrived to subdue Kane, and the scowling monster of a man reluctantly stalked back up the ramp.

Producing a microphone from seemingly nowhere, Punk began to talk. "You know, Kane, we really need to work something out. 'Cause this business of coming out every week to randomly attack the commentators is really getting old." He held the microphone out to Carth. "Don't you agree?"

Momentarily tongue-tied and dazed from the sudden attack, Carth only nodded his head dumbly. But Punk was satisfied. "See? He agrees with me!"

Dizzily trying to keep to his feet, 'Michael Cole' clambered out of the ring and settled back gratefully behind the commentators' table where Jerry Lawler gave him a friendly nudge. Carth suspecting he'd have a new selection of bruises in the morning, but at least his head was still on straight.

Punk, however, was not finished. "Now Kane, I know you want this." He held up his championship belt and waved it around a few times. "But you and I both know that's gonna have to wait until the next pay-per-view, the Trans-Galactic Brawl. So until then, I am World Heavyweight Champion, and it's gonna stay that way! And furthermore--"

_"TIME TO PLAY THE GAME!"_

Punk's speech was interrupted by the sudden blaring of a new rock song and the appearance of a shirtless, long-haired Mandalorian in battered blue-jeans. Jerry and Jim referred to the muscle-bound newcomer as Triple H, aka The Game. The crowd shrieked its pleasure as he made his way up to the ring and produced a microphone of his own.

"Punk," he boomed, "if you think you're getting a free ride into the Trans-Galactic Brawl, you'd better Think Again. That Championship is rightfully mine, and I intend to take it from you. I've decided, my match tonight against JBL will be a Trans-Galactic Brawl qualifier, so I can face you in a Triple Threat Match with Kane!" Again, the crowd roared its approval.

CM Punk raised his hands. "Whoa, whoa, now! Triple H, you can't just come in here and decide things like 'I'm gonna qualify for the Brawl tonight!' That's for the general manager to decide. Not you, not me--the GM. And as much as I may dislike--"

Once again, Punk was interrupted, this time by a silly-sounding bell and the commencement of ridiculously noble-sounding music. This time, no one came down the ramp. Instead, a low-riding transport with a pair of kath hound horns on the front slowly edged into the arena, as the crowd groaned in unison. The big screens proudly displayed the initials 'JBL' while the music inexplicably paused so the sound of a cow mooing could be heard. Out of the back of the transport came a podgy guy in a suit and dumb-looking hat. He too, made his way to the ring and pulled a microphone from thin air. At this, the crowd erupted in boos and catcalls and declarations of "You suck!" One of the girls in the crowd was brandishing a sign that proclaimed in large, highly conspicuous letters: GET A BRA, JBL! The thought occurred to Carth that this 'JBL' looked exactly like Davik Kang.

"Triple H, CM Punk, just who do you think you are?" JBL monotoned from under his irritating hat. "Your word means nothing here. _Nothing_. This whole enterprise is only made possible by my many and generous contributions in the form of cold, hard cash. And let me tell you that money is the only real power there is. Therefore, since none of you can ever challenge my position as prime benefactor to the TWE, that means that I, JBL, am in charge here tonight. So what I say goes.

"Triple H," he droned on, "in our match tonight, you will _not_ qualify for some Triple Threat Match with CM Punk and Kane. However, if I win, then it'll be one-on-one with me, JBL, and CM Punk for the World Heavyweight Championship at the Trans-Galactic Brawl." And with a smirk, JBL left the ring to the resumption of his music.

Triple H and CM Punk glared at each other, then Punk shrugged and climbed out of the ring, soon followed by Triple H.

And then something infinitely weirder happened. And that something was nothing.

Carth looked around in confusion. Absolutely nothing was happening. "What's going on?" he asked Jerry Lawler.

"Commercial break."

"Commercial break?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"I run the show around here, not him. That guy is nothing but trouble! Nothing! I'm in charge!" JBL's backstage rant against CM Punk was shown on the huge screens throughout the stadium.

Ajuur, also onscreen, was less than impressed. "_You know, Layfield, despite your desperate speeches, I still rather like the idea of a Triple Threat Match for the World Heavyweight Championship at the Trans-Galactic Brawl._"

"Come on, Triple H has nothing on me. And we all know that it should be me, JBL, facing CM Punk at the Brawl, not this guy Kane. Everyone here knows that the longest reigning Heavyweight Champion in history...was ME. Furthermore, it's MY money, MY determination, and MY long history of glory that's keeping the TWE running. If anyone deserves a one-on-one match with CM Punk, it's me."

"_Yes, yes, that may or may not be so. But our viewers want something exciting. Something... invigorating! Something they've never seen before!_"

JBL's face sagged in protest. "With all due respect, Ajuur, what greater excitement could there be than me, JBL, facing--"

Ajuur interrupted him with a wave of his enormous arm. "_As it turns out, Bradshaw, I like both ideas so well I'm going to make a compromise; if Triple H wins, then he gets his Triple Threat Match. But if you win, then Kane's out and you can pick the third man._"

A conspiratorial grin spread over JBL's podgy face. "Good call."

And then, as suddenly as the pointless clip began, it ended.

Carth was totally, hopelessly confused. Nothing had made sense to him from the moment he'd laid eyes on John, from his baseball cap to the baggy denim shorts. Since then, between standing around clueless while John did all the talking and desperately trying to free himself from the clutches of hordes of barely-dressed women, it seemed as if the whole galaxy were trying to tear loose his fragile grip on sanity.

Out of the corner of his mouth, and covering the microphone with his hand, Carth whispered to Jerry Lawler. "So is there ever actually any fighting?" Lawler assured him that there was and that actually there was a match coming right up.

His words proved prophetic a few minutes later.

"The following match is scheduled for one-fall, it is for the right to date the new commentator, Michael Cole, and will be a Fatal Four-Way match-up!" the Twi'lek ring announcer announced. The screens promptly lit up yet again and more music blasted through the arena. This time, instead of an ear-assaulting heavy metal rip, a grinding rock song, or a moo-punctuated anthem of mock nobility, it was a horribly produced, cringe-inducing dance mix of an obnoxious pop hit.

Carth groaned as he recognized the scantily-dressed figure of Kelly Kelly jaunting down the ramp to shimmy her way into the ring like nothing so much as a stripper. The ring announcer announced her with gusto as Kelly paraded herself around the ring, making sure every last person in the audience could tell just exactly how much skin her outfit did or didn't cover.

She was followed by the bounciest, merriest, most sickeningly cheerful bimbo Carth had ever seen. She skipped into view wearing a marginally more modest outfit than Kelly Kelly, featuring ridiculously swishy pants and a top that at least made a pretense of trying to contain her plastic cleavage—though not by much. The Twi'lek announced her as the "TWE Women's Champion, Mickie James!"

There were scattered cheers, but most were lost to the overpowering sleaze of James' theme music as she slithered into the ring, again reminding Carth of strippers. She regarded Kelly Kelly with a venomous cat glare, which the petite diva returned in kind.

The loudspeakers burst afresh into song as two people appeared at the top of the ramp. One was a busty brunette chick in tight purple pants and a staggeringly brief top, and the other was a lumbering lummox of a man with long scraggly hair and a face that looked like it had gotten stuck in a blender.

"Accompanied by her brother Paul, is the top contender for the TWE Women's Championship, Katie Lea Burchill!"

Carth felt his stomach lurch; that guy was her brother? She was draped all over him!

All three divas circled each other in the ring shooting each other hot glares, as the speakers changed tune for the fourth and final time. "And finally, the fourth contender for the right to date Michael Cole--The Glamazon, Beth Phoenix!" This time, there were actually some enthusiastic cheers as Beth stalked down the ramp in her shiny black outfit--which, shockingly, was mostly there, with only perfunctory skin-flashing.

She seemed twice as tall as the others, with pale hair, a jutting jaw and more than a hint of Cathar blood. She was the first Carth had seen who looked like she might actually possess just the faintest bit of dignity. Then he remembered that she was going to be fighting for the right to date him. Never mind.

Barely had the Twi'lek ring announcer scrambled out of the ring and the bell rung before the four divas launched themselves on each other, shrieking and clawing and showcasing their hair's swishiness. Carth felt like he was watching some kind of bizarre hybrid of gladiator match and shampoo commercial, transpiring in debatable glory right before his eyes. In a battle of pink sparkle and purple shimmer, Kelly Kelly and Katie Lea were locked into arm grappling, while Beth Phoenix wasted no time whaling on Mickie James. James made a hapless grab at Phoenix's arm to try and throw her against the ropes, but the Glamazon merely slammed her down, sending her swishing and yelping to the floor of the ring.

Meanwhile, Kelly Kelly had wriggled out of an arm hold and sent Katie Lea to the floor in a purple plummet. All but yelling "Stripper Powers, Activate!", Kelly shimmied up a corner of the ring--but instead of bodyslamming the prone Katie, Kelly hurled herself onto Beth Phoenix, who had Mickie James in a hold while the referee urgently pounded the mat.

Carth feigned a coughing fit to have an excuse to look away while the two scandalously-dressed women rolled over each other in the ring. His fakery was interrupted by an ignominious smack! Kelly Kelly had hit the floor, having been hurled from the ring by the Glamazon, who turned her attention to the now-grappling Mickie James and Katie Lea.

Like a fashionable streak of lightning, Phoenix set on them both and dragged them down by the necks. While they lay still for a moment, The Glamazon circled like a hawk, then seized Katie Lea by the hair and seemed to haul her upright (though the other woman was suspiciously cooperative). She threw Katie Lea against the ropes and aimed a kick at her the head, but missed. But Katie Lea went down anyway, like a ninepin who knows its tricks even when they aren't called for.

The Glamazon then tried to hold Katie Lea down long enough for a three-count, but she was kicked in the back by Mickie James, who barely had time for a victorious shriek before she was set upon by the remergent Kelly Kelly. The match rapidly degenerated into an out-and-out cat-fight between the four women, featuring much flailing, hair-swooshing, scrambling, kicking, satiny grappling, and other vaguely violent action, none of which seemed to disarrange their clothing, makeup, or hair.

The incredible stupidity of the whole thing seemed to have the crowd in a stranglehold. Feeling like he might either be sick or have his retinas implode (and almost hoping for the latter), Carth launched into another convenient coughing fit. He actually managed to get something caught in his throat in the process, thus invoking more coughs and allowing him to concentrate on something besides the 'wrestling match' going on in the ring. He was sure this qualified him for the "Worst Announcer Ever" award, but somehow he just didn't care.

When Carth's throat cleared and he looked up, Beth Phoenix was stalking triumphantly around the ring to her victory music, smirking at her three opponents. He felt his face go beet red as she slyly blew a kiss at him and strode from the ring, leaving Mickie James, Kelly Kelly, and Katie Lea groaning in conspicuous fakery. They struggled to their feet, their hair still somehow smooth and shiny. As the Glamazon sauntered victoriously up the ramp, the defeated trio glared at her receding figure with enough malice to melt starship hull.

A period of nothing followed, which Carth took for another commercial break. It was rather refreshing to catch his breath while the divas exited the ring with absolutely no fanfare or dirt-awful theme music. However, the idea that lurking somewhere was Beth Phoenix intent on dating him kept Carth's heart-rate uncomfortably high. Thus, he was even more relieved when the speakers blasted forth once again to announce the arrival of a new, non-diva, wrestler.

The music, however, was as scrawny as the small man who was sidling down the ring. The crowd barely noticed him, taking the opportunity to refill their juma glasses, stretch their legs, or storm the bathroom. According to the announcer, who sounded bored herself, the scrawny guy was some nobody named 'Deadeye Duncan'. Wearing stretchy black briefs, Duncan looked like he'd have a hard time of intimidating a starved Jawa. He wasn't even given time to mosey about the ring before another, equally sucky theme started playing.

The next newcomer was another shrimp of a man in stretchy-pants, who was announced as Jamie Noble. He marched down the ramp as if he had something to prove, strutting along like he was someone to be respected. But those of the crowd who weren't snacking, drinking, chatting, or halfheartedly booing, were out-and-out asleep.

In short order, the bell was rung and the match between the two insignificants began. It started out as another grapple-fest, almost like watching monkeys squabbling over a banana. The only difference was the absence of a banana. After a few minutes of incredibly boring "action" - including a couple failed attempts at bodyslamming and some exercises in obvious fakery - Noble seized a convenient chance to clamp Duncan into a leg-hold long enough for three-count. The five-minute match, which had felt more like half an hour, was finally over. Noble's music played triumphantly, but no one cheered. No one cared. Carth very much doubted whether anyone had even noticed.

_"I'M GONNA TA-AYKE WHAT'S MAHN!"_

Noble's victory music was interrupted by a considerably more impressive theme song, promptly followed by the appearance of well-dressed man whose main accessories were an extremely large, glittery belt and a superior smirk. His Mandalorian physique made him about twice Jamie Noble's size. Without preamble, he dove into the ring and lunged at Noble. Hooking an arm around the smaller man's neck, he threw his body forward, slamming Noble down the floor of the ring and leaving him prostrate and senseless. He rose, glaring around at the booing crowd. Carth mentally added him to the ever-lengthening list of People to Avoid in the Near and Distant Future, right up there with Beth Phoenix. Although he doubted this one wanted to date him.

According to Jim Ross and Jerry Lawler, the new guy was TWE Champion, Randy Orton, nicknamed the Star Killer. On cue, his music stopped and he raised a suddenly-there microphone.

"I know I'm not supposed to be here right now," Orton began, his voice exuding an inflated ego and supreme sense of self-righteousness. "But I just wanted to let everyone in this arena know that I Am TWE Champion! I beat Triple H," - the crowd booed - "I vanquished Ric Marl," - the crowd booed louder - "I _destroyed_ Shawn Michaels," - the crowd's boos grew deafening - "and _every challenger since then _has met the same fate! I am the Star Killer. So tonight, when the torch is passed to me, I will be _The_ Champion! Undisputed and unquestioned, the Champion. And I will finally have the respect I deserve!"

With a studied sneer, Orton made one last sweep of the crowd, who were screaming their hatred and loathing, and exited the ring.

Carth made a mental note: One should never, _ever_, let Mandalorians compete in a sport where the object was to beat people up. Ever.

Elsewhere in the arena, John watched Orton on a convenient television screen. The man's arrogance was ridiculous. But as John thought about what he had planned for later on that night, the typical smile returned to his face. Randy Orton was going to have quite a surprise on his hands.


	3. Chapter 3

"Congratulations, Mr. Noble. You've won my approval to be in my Triple Threat Match against CM Punk at the Trans-Galactic Brawl once I beat Triple H."

Carth couldn't believe his eyes. Another commercial break and they were again starting things off with another irrelevant backstage clip with JBL? Was there actually any point to any of this? Everything was starting to seem like it was being actively made up as it happened.

"Well, thank you kindly, Mr. JBL, sir!" Jamie Noble responded enthusiastically. Displaying his advanced state of moronitis, he continued: "I gotta say, I'm looking forward to fightin' you, 'cause I know I can beat you and Punk put together!"

JBL's expression became an interesting melange of contempt, amusement, and 'I'm hungry'. "You think you can beat me, JBL, in a ring that has no rules? Do you honestly believe you're a match for the man who is the longest reigning Heavyweight Champion in history? I picked you for one reason, and one reason alone: I know for a fact that I could mop the floor with your pathetic, skinny, insignificant hide. When I get to the Brawl, no one's gonna stand between me and my opportunity to knock CM Punk off his egotistical pedestal. The World Heavyweight Championship will come back to the one who deserves it most. Participation in a Triple Threat Match with me, JBL, isn't an opportunity--it's a sentence!"

Any sane person, Carth included, would close his mouth, back away, and hope for the floor to swallow him. But incredibly, even this was not enough to curb Jamie Noble's ridiculous chattiness. "Well, I don't know if you've been payin' attention, but I was a big deal over on SmackDown. So you should just be careful I don't kick yer butt in that Triple Threat Match o' yours. Maybe I'll just be the new World Heavyweight Champion. Ya never know."

JBL's hate-you/annoyed-by-you/you'd-make-a-nice-snack look intensified, but just as he was about to open his mouth to deliver more irrefutable proof that there wouldn't be enough left of Noble to pick his teeth with when he was done - on the foregone conclusion that he beat Triple H tonight - he noticed a gigantic, immobile monster of a man all but breathing down Noble's neck. Belatedly, Jamie Noble turned around to look a good two feet up at Kane's glowering face.

"Just what do you think you've won?" Kane asked, with truly ludicrous bestial anger ringing in his deep voice. "_I_ am the one who is going to face CM Punk at the Trans-Galactic Brawl, Triple Threat or no Triple Threat. Me. Not you. And if you go around saying otherwise, I will personally beat you down and break you, body and spirit. I will crush you, and inflict such pain and suffering on you as you can barely imagine." He shifted his Neanderthalic glare to JBL. "And as for you. You'd better watch your back during your match tonight. You might have a few problems." And with that, he delivered a guttural, maniacal laugh, sustained over a solid twenty seconds. After zooming in on the squirrel-scared face of Noble (and the revoltingly expressionless JBL), the camera cut out. Carth clutched his head, thinking that he had touched new heights of derision tonight. Things had better come to a head, and soon.

"TIME TO PLAY THE GAME!"

As the chugging, guitar-driven theme song began to play, most of the lights in the arena flicked off, the better to better highlight the staccato flashes of the Titantron screens displaying various scenes of dramatically ersatz savagery and physical brutality enacted by a massive Mandalorian.

"TIME TO PLLAAY THE GAAAME!!"

Slowly, menacingly, the shirtless, stretchypants-wearing figure of Triple H stalked down the ramp. His hair and body were dripping wet, and his body displayed a tan so even and glowing that Carth knew it had to be salon-painted. The crowd displayed complete ecstasy, many people drunkly waving signs with various messages of adoration, and everyone made noise more tremendous than Carth would have thought possible.

The Twi'lek ring announcer did her stuff, hitting a new register of awesome enthusiasm. "The following contest is scheduled for one-fall, it is a Trans-Galactic Brawl Qualifier. Introducing first, Trrrrrrrriple AITCH!"

While his music continued to snarl from the speakers, the glowering Mandalorian took a swig from his water bottle, waited as if for a cue while the rock song reached a crescendo of guitar squealiness, leaned back and spewed an incredible fountain of water. The crowd began screaming outright. For a few more moments Triple H stood glowering, allowing the prostrate-with-adoration crowd to snap at least half a million photos.

Unfortunately, the ecstasy was not to last, as JBL's theme commenced with the ridiculous bell-ringing and pompous horns. Judging by the crowd's reaction, there was not a single person on Taris who wanted to see Layfield's ugly mug, cowboy hat, or pointless limo _again_. But there it was, crawling into the arena like a disgraced Hutt, displaying the initials 'JBL' on every conceivable surface, just in case there was any doubt about the limo's ownership (or JBL's name). When JBL climbed out of his limo - his annoying hat still on his head and an irritating towel wrapped around his neck underneath an inexplicable windbreaker - Carth found new reason to wish his eyesight gone: JBL had no pants on. Suppressing the urge to cover his eyes and peek cautiously through his fingers, Carth realized that JBL actually had the same stretchypants-type things as did a lot of the other wrestlers. But with the windbreaker it looked just like he was pantsless.

A drink. Carth needed a drink. Stat.

"And introducing the challenger: John Bradshaw Layfield!" At the Twi'lek's announcement there were no cheers--plenty of jeers, but no cheers. Derisive signs went up, and much of the crowd started chanting "Get a bra!" when JBL clambered into the ring and discarded hat, towel, and windbreaker. Taking one look at the slightly overweight crime lord, Carth could definitely understand the chants.

Cellulite. Carth choked down a gag.

Remarkably, JBL wasn't allowed to even say his name a few times. The bell was rung and the match was underway.

Triple H immediately lunged forward and grabbed JBL's arms, shoving the ugly lummox into a corner of the ring, where he proceeded to beat at him with his... wrists. Ostensibly he was using his fists, but if there was any contact whatsoever it was negligible. Nevertheless, the referee pulled the irate Mandalorian away, yammering in his ear something Carth couldn't make out. Maybe he was asking for the check.

Beet-faced, JBL looked to make a comeback, and threw his elbow at Triple H, who obligingly fell to the mat. JBL immediately tried to hold Triple H down for a count, but his opponent promptly kicked out, forcing JBL to let go. They both scrambled to their feet and Triple H snatched JBL's arm, tossing him against the ropes and ramming his shoulder into him as he bounced back, sending JBL crashing down. Patiently, Triple H waited for JBL to get back up, punching him repeatedly in the face when he did. This served to further enrage the overweight lummox, but Triple H held the initiative.

Bounce went JBL off the ropes, but upon ricocheting back towards Triple H, he stuck his arm out and dragged the Mandalorian down. The crowd booed loudly while JBL proceeded to slam his shoulder down on the prostrate Triple H over and over and over again. Triple H was apparently content to let JBL whale on him, as he obligingly helped the other man drag him up by the hair to slam him into a corner of the ring where he got in more pummeling before the referee urgently pulled him away.

Triple H tried to get back into the fight, diving at JBL and sending them both to the floor of the ring. Despite the fact that both of them hit the floor with about equal force, Triple H had apparently decided that it hurt his back especially much, and flailed about grimacing in 'pain' while JBL picked himself up.

Carth was dumbfounded when JBL just stood there and Triple H just lay there. It was another commercial break. In the middle of a fight?

A few minutes later, they resumed. Jerry Lawler started saying something like "I think the physical pace of this match has been very even," while JBL was holding Triple H in a headlock. It was not very convincing, looking more like an opportunity for both men to get their wind back.

Suddenly, both Lawler and Ross were looking at Carth very expectantly. He realized only after about ten solid seconds of silence that they wanted him to say something. Unable to hold them back any longer, Carth's thoughts came tumbling out of his mouth faster than he could move his lips.

"This is the dumbest sport I've ever seen! I mean, will you look at that! They're both obviously faking it! I can almost see JBL asking Triple H if he saw the game last night! In the past hour I've seen nothing that can even remotely qualify as 'violent'! And don't even get me started on the divas...!"

Jerry Lawler and Jim Ross shot alarmed looks at the cameramen and made frantic cutting motions while Carth rambled on, even at the camera's departure to examine Triple H's pain and suffering more closely.

Carth shut his mouth, but made no apology. _Someone _had to say it.

In the ring, Triple H was finally able to grab the ropes and JBL was forced to relinquish his hold. Like an irate kath hound, Triple H turned his fury loose, punching, kicking, elbowing, bodyslamming, and inflicting all sorts of mysteriously nonviolent punishment as JBL tried futilely to stage a comeback of his own.

On a sudden turn of the tables, however, JBL got Triple H into a leg-lock from which the Mandalorian could not extricate himself. The referee buzzed incessantly around Triple H asking if he wanted to tap out, at which he vehemently shook his head. Jim Ross and Jerry Lawler dramatically elaborated about how impossible it was for Triple H to conceivably break the hold, even in theory.

Suddenly, Kane appeared ringside and grabbed JBL's neck from behind the ropes and yanked him off Triple H. The referee screamed disqualification, but no one listened to him, and Triple H began pummeling JBL while Kane held him against the ropes. JBL eventually elbowed Kane in the face, thus breaking free, but Triple H would none of it, bodily hurling JBL back to the floor.

Furious, Triple H climbed to a corner of the ring and, as JBL was attempting to pick himself up, dove headlong at his opponent. JBL was decimated beyond recognition while Triple H grabbed his leg and held him down while the referee pounded three times on the mat.

The crowd erupted in cheers and Triple H raised his arms in victory as his music blared over JBL's humiliation and defeat.

"And here is your winner: Trrrrrrrriple AITCH!"

Much posing, victorious gesturing, and picture-taking followed, after which Triple H returned back up the ramp, roaring to the crowd until he was out of sight. Exhausted, JBL slunk out of the ring like a drunken fish and disappeared.

There was another commercial break and then yet again the screens lit up and loudspeakers boomed to life.

"Hey! Nothing you can say! Nothing's gonna change what you've done to me! Now it's time to shine, I'm gonna take what's mine while you're burnin' inside my light!"

Randy Orton slowly sauntered up to the ring while his entrance theme played in dubious emo glory. He had ditched the black button-down and dress pants in favor of no shirt and no pants--just black stretchypants with the name 'Orton' across the rear end like a bumper-sticker, so there could be no possible confusion. He also cradled a relentlessly glittery gold belt in his hands, draped over his shoulder like a security blanket. His face was frozen in a perpetual pout of superiority.

"I'M GONNA TA-AYKE WHAT'S MAHN!"

The crowd was not impressed by his posturing, nor his anything else. In fact, they made their feelings unmistakably clear by holding up derisive signs, roaring in deafening chants of 'You suck!', and showing him their downward-pointing thumbs and other, upward-pointing, unnamed digits. Yet they appeared to be having much more fun hating him than they had JBL. One girl summed up everyone's feelings particularly well with a sign that read 'Orton The Worm!' and shrieking her enthusiastic, strangely pleased displeasure at his very existence.

He circled the ring, absently raising his golden championship belt as if he expected it to be automatically impressive. Finally, after apparently even he had gotten sick of hearing "I'M GONNA TA-AYKE WHAT'S MAHN!" he produced a microphone and commenced to declaim. His wooden voice was intended to be stoic and reserved, but sounded instead like the dull drone of a washing machine that's been running for a solid eighteen hours.

"...And then, there was none," Orton over-dramatically began. "After beating Triple H, after beating Shawn Michaels, after the destruction of John Cena and the total annihilation of every superstar, legend, and champion in my path, I've managed to do the impossible!" He was forced to pause on account of the sheer volume of the crowd's deafening ire. After a moment, he continued, undeterred. "I have beaten..._all that there is to beat_." He closed his eyes for an ill-advised moment of personal bliss, which the crowd thoroughly ruined by roaring all throughout. "And now, it is time for the torch to be passed... to me."

Dramatic music began playing and the giant screens showed a runner on the streets of Taris approaching the stadium, carrying a lit torch in his hand as he hobbled along. He had obviously been running for hours.

"I am so ready for this! I deserve this! I have earned this!" Randy Orton impatiently growled at the crowd while the runner neared the arena. Though what purpose that would serve was beyond Carth. Just what would Orton do with the torch once it arrived? Fondle it? Carth decided not to think too hard about that, as nothing seemed too far beyond the realm of possibility at this point.

After a few more seconds of dramatic music-playing and camera-watching, the runner entered the stadium. He rounded a corner, torch happily burning.

Suddenly--an arm.

At eye level, the massive, outflung and unmoving arm knocked the runner clean off his feet, sending the torch flying out of sight. The arm's unseen owner kept flexing, and the crowd went into wild, shocked cheers. Jim Ross and Jerry Lawler were likewise stunned. Randy Orton looked like he'd just seen a dancing cow make off with his coveted championship belt.

Carth went rigid when he saw a baseball cap on the mystery man's head and recognized the T-shirt and baggy denim shorts.

It couldn't be... he didn't...

Bending over the "unconscious" body of the torch-runner, the newcomer waved a hand over his face mockingly.

He did.

Jerry Lawler, stupefied and ecstatic, joyously proclaimed, "That can only be one man!"

Profound indigestion was stamped across Randy Orton's face.

Defiantly, all the lights in the arena shut off. Pinpoints of sparkly light flashed on and off the screens and white fireworks blazed all along the entrance ramp. There was a crescendo of pyrotechnics as the words "Cena Returns" were proudly displayed on the huge screens, sparkling in blingy glory.

In a flash of fireworks, the broad-shouldered, rowdy, energetic, baseball-capped figure of John Cena burst onto the ramp, yelling enthusiastically to the crowd. His words were drowned out by the sheer volume of adoration and delight pouring from the lungs of everyone in the stadium. He wore a smile wide enough for two men.

The Twi'lek ring announcer knew just what to do. "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome back... John Cena!" And the crowd happily obliged, continuing to shower him in cheers and praise.

Randy Orton glowered from the ring, clutching his championship belt as though afraid it had sprouted legs and was intending to flee.

For a minute, John Cena just stood there, exulting in the crowd's adoration. He then produced a microphone and began to speak. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am here tonight to answer a very important question. A question that is most likely on everyone's mind this evening; how can this be possible? After all, last year I suffered what a lot of people were sure would be a career-ending injury at the hands of this man, Randy Orton." At this, the crowd made known anew their hatred of Orton. Cena paused a moment, then continued. "Since that night, I have been out of action for eight months, twenty-seven days, twenty hours, and forty-three minutes! And I spent most of that time laying in a hospital bed, watching everything I have accomplished in this business slip through my fingers, watching people like Randy here slowly taking over this organization and its superstars! So, in the eleventh hour, against the insistence of my doctors that I wasn't ready, I made a last-minute decision!"

He paused again as the cheers grew too loud to speak over, despite the stadium's par excellence PA system. "Ladies and gentlemen, I AM BACK!"

Carth thought surely if the crowd screamed any louder the stadium would have exploded.

"I am back and there's a man here who has something I want, and I'm officially challenging him, right here in front of all you great people of Taris, for the TWE CHAMPIONSHIP! TONIGHT!"

As the cheering engulfed them again, Randy Orton stepped forward with what he hoped was sophisticated indignance. With an expression reminiscent of someone who's looked into the spinning turbine of a podracer, Orton slowly raised his microphone.

He drawled with the same contemptuous drone, inciting groans from the crowd. "John Cena, I don't think this is what you want. Because you see I've been issued all kinds of challenges. And the same thing has happened to each one of them in the end: _I _have _beat_ them!" With their own special brand of indignation, the crowd booed thunderously. "Besides, ever since I cracked your spine with my bare fists and put you in that hospital bed, I have become a very big deal. I am a bigger deal than you will ever be, so I will never, NEVER defend this championship title... unless these people open their wallets to pay to see it. So you see, John Cena, you can't--"

With a wide grin on his face, John cheekily interrupted the desperate-sounding Orton. "Well, as it turns out, Randy, you don't have a choice! You see I was talking to the good General Manager and he agreed with my assessment that since I was injured during a title match, the first match upon my return would be a title match--against _you!_"

Randy Orton looked like he'd just swallowed a Felucian bug, and it wasn't going down easy.

John roared, whipping the crowd up nearly to a frenzy. "Tonight, it is John Cena versus The Worm, Randy Orton! FOR THE TWE CHAMPIONSHIP!"

And with that, he flung his cap to the ecstatic crowd, tore off his shirt and hurled it to fans ready to fight for it, and stormed down the ramp. If he already looked big, he looked downright mountainous without his shirt.

"The following contest is scheduled for one-fall. It is for the TWE Championship!" came from the Twi'lek ring announcer as John dove into the ring.

Randy Orton disposed of his microphone and was parted from his security bla--championship belt by the referees just in time for the bell to be rung. The match was on.

John Cena wasted no time, and immediately lunged for Randy Orton. The Worm managed to hold him off for a grapple-fest, ending by getting slammed into a corner of the ring by the dominant Cena, who proceeded to pummel with fist and arm. The referee broke the two men away from each other through a monumental exertion of arbitrary power and Orton took the first chance to gain advantage.

The Worm landed a few good blows and kicks to Cena, finally grabbing him and bouncing him off the ropes, ready to elbow-smash him when he rebounded. Instead of bounding right into Orton's move, Cena ducked under the elbow, bounced a second time off the opposite ropes, and landed his own elbow squarely on Orton's back, sending the TWE Champion to the floor of the mat. But Cena wasn't done with him yet. Not by a long shot.

Grabbing Orton's head, he hauled him back to his feet and bounced him off the ropes, arching his back when Orton came flying back toward him and hefting him onto his shoulders. Orton was helpless in Cena's grip, and unable to do anything but flail satisfactorily as John hurled him off his shoulders, over the ropes, over the open floor of the arena, to land quite nicely on the announcer's table, which sagged suspiciously.

Carth inched his chair away from the sweaty, mostly naked guy lying right in front of him--until he backed up against the spectator barrier and could go no further.

The referee started chanting a count-up while John Cena left the ring to drag around Orton some more, hitting his head against the posts at the corners of the ring, hitting his head against the ring itself, and hitting his head against the solid-hollow-steel-aluminum steps leading to the ring. Very little of it actually looked like it hurt, but it was the idea, apparently. As Carth had learned in the last two hours, nothing needed to make sense.

John Cena eventually flung Orton back into the ring just as the referee had reached six in his count-up. Orton chose the moment for a comeback, extending a leg to catch Cena in the head, sending him plummeting to the floor. Orton then unwisely tried to pin Cena, only for him to kick out after a single pound of the referee's hand on the ring. However, still more Orton domination followed, John Cena apparently exhausted from his early control of the match. Randy Orton did falling elbow-slams, chokeholds, and even the dreaded kick-at-every-exposed-body-part routine, all of which Cena suffered through long enough to find some means of salvation.

Cena finally broke Orton's march of victory with a massive arm to the neck, throwing the TWE Champion to the mat. John then quickly dropped to the mat and hooked Orton's leg in an arm, wrapping his other around the worm's neck to hold him helpless in the middle of the ring. Randy Orton was immobile in John Cena's merciless hold, the ropes much too far away to offer him any hope of salvation.

The crowd (Carth and commentators included) were then subjected to what seemed like a solid hour of Randy Orton languishing in John Cena's submission hold. Carth checked his watch periodically, suppressing yawns and sipping on a soft drink - sadly, nonalcoholic - he'd snagged from Jerry Lawler. Back in the ring there was still more suffering from Orton as he refused to tap out and concede defeat. Time passed grindingly slow. Carth was unable to stifle a mammoth yawn, the vocalization sounding loudly through his microphone as he spread his arms wide and stretched his legs as far as they would go. Still nothing.

And then it happened. Orton began tapping desperately on the mat, signaling the end of the match and Cena's victory. The bell was rung and John's victory music, a catchy, trumpety rap track, began playing whilst the crowd erupted in wild cheers.

John sprang up, looking about as happy as Carth had ever seen him, and stood triumphantly as the referee raised his fist into the air, John's hand clutching the golden TWE Championship title belt.

The next few minutes were by far the craziest of the night, and maybe even his whole life. John sprang from the ring and grabbed him by the arm, yanking him away from the "safe sanctuary" of his announcer's table and ushering him into the ring to help him celebrate as Randy Orton slunk from the mat and tried to disappear. John was everywhere, showing off his Championship title to the crowd, yelling in a crazed, hoarsened voice, and posturing relentlessly. Carth felt like going insane just to preserve his sanity, as bizarre as that sounded.

But his utter bewilderment wasn't yet complete. Beth Phoenix appeared out of nowhere, grabbed his collar, and planted an enormous and very insistent kiss on his lips. Mortified, Carth tried to free himself, but found to his dismay that she was every bit as strong as she looked, and she wasn't quitting till the job was done right.

Amidst the happy screams of the exultant crowd, and buried in a Glamazon kiss for the history books, Carth relinquished all dignity and kissed her back. Behind him, he was sure that John was laughing merrily at him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_Much Later_

"_What?_ We still have no plan to get off Taris? What have you been _doing _all this time?"

Carth paled slightly at Bastila's question and looked accusingly - _murderously_ - over at John, who at the moment was reclining on a six-thousand-credit vibrating chair, munching contentedly on a rare exotic fruit, juice dribbling defiantly down his chin.

A grin spread over Cena's face. "Well, we've been a little busy..."

_Fin_


End file.
